A poet's hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.

Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.

God is Love, we are taught as children to believe. But when we first begin to get some inkling of how He loves us, we are repelled; it seems so cold, indeed, not love at all as we understand the word.

All wishes, whatever their apparent content, have the same and unvarying meaning: "I refuse to be what I am."

Though one cannot always Remember exactly why one has been happy, There is no forgetting that one was.

Beloved, we are always in the wrong, Handling so clumsily our stupid lives, Suffering too little or too long, Too careful even in our selfish loves: The decorative manias we obey Die in grimaces round us every day, Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice.

A false enchantment can all too easily last a lifetime.